Chapter 6
LILAH
I woke to the smell of coffee and the low rumble of Dawson's voice drifting up from the kitchen.
For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom where I’d been sleeping all week. My ribs didn't ache anymore. My body felt strong and capable, like it used to before everything with the promoter had gone sideways.
I stretched, my muscles loose and pleasantly sore from yesterday's session with the bay mare named Mesa. I’d been alternating training days between her and Rio, and both had come a long way.
We’d made it through three clean vaults and two stand-ups.
I even did an exceptional drag that would've gotten me a standing ovation if anyone had been watching besides Dawson.
He'd been watching, though. He always watched.
I pulled on jeans and one of his flannels because his were softer than mine and smelled like him, then padded downstairs barefoot.
Dawson stood at the stove, his phone held to his ear, flipping eggs with the steady concentration he brought to everything. He glanced up when I entered the kitchen, and his expression warmed.
He pulled the phone away for a second and nodded toward the coffee pot. "Coffee's fresh."
I poured myself a cup and leaned against the counter, watching him finish his call. Something about stock delivery schedules and arena prep. His jaw ticked when he hung up, but he didn't let it linger.
Instead, he slid the eggs onto two plates and set them on the table. "Eat."
I sank into a chair, studying the dark smudges under his eyes. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Enough."
That meant no. He'd been restless lately. I'd felt him leave the bed twice last night and heard him moving around downstairs. When I asked, he'd brushed it off as ranch business…deadlines…the usual.
I didn't believe him, but I also didn’t push. Not when he was already giving me so much more than I'd expected.
We ate in comfortable silence, the kind that didn't need filling. When he reached across the table to steal a piece of my toast, I swatted his hand away, and he smirked.
"I thought you said you made enough," I said.
"Changed my mind."
I handed him the rest of the slice. He took it, his fingers brushing mine, and the warmth of his touch lingered.
Moments like this had become routine and easy. We shared the kind of intimacy that settled into the corners of the day like his hand on my lower back when I passed him in the hallway, the way he always made sure I ate before heading out to the arena, and the quiet weight of him next to me at night.
It felt good. Safe, even. Like maybe this wasn't as temporary as we were both pretending it was.
After breakfast, I headed out to the arena while Dawson disappeared into his office. Rio was already saddled and waiting, courtesy of one of the ranch hands who'd learned my routine almost as well as I had.
I worked through my drills—slow at first, building trust, then faster as the horse settled into the rhythm. He was steady and reliable, the kind of horse that didn't spook when I shifted my weight or swung under his barrel.
But as good as he was, he still wasn’t Calla. God, I missed her.
My phone buzzed in my pocket halfway through a vault sequence. I ignored it until I'd finished the run, then pulled it out, still catching my breath.
It was a text from my lawyer.
Lawyer: Promoter's team filed for extension. Another month minimum.
I stared at the screen, my chest tightening.
Another month.
Another month of waiting. Another month of being stuck in limbo while someone else controlled my career, my horse, and my future.
I’d told myself I was good at walking away…from bad contracts…from unsafe partnerships…from men who asked for too much and offered too little in return. But standing there, my phone heavy in my hand, it hit me that leaving had never been the hard part.
Staying was.
Staying meant giving someone enough access to hurt me if they chose to. It meant trusting that what we built together wouldn’t be taken, twisted, or signed away because I missed the fine print, or because I wanted something badly enough to ignore the risk.
I’d already lost one partnership I loved. I wasn’t sure I could survive losing another.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and swung onto Rio’s back, urging him into a canter. The wind bit at my face, sharp and cold, but I didn't slow down. I needed the speed, the burn in my legs, the proof that I could still do this.
When I finally pulled up, Dawson was leaning against the fence, arms crossed, watching.
"You looked good," he said.
I dismounted and handed the reins to the ranch hand who'd appeared out of nowhere. "Felt good."
Dawson's gaze lingered on me, reading something I wasn't saying. He pushed off the fence and closed the distance between us.
"What happened?"
I shrugged. "My lawyer texted. The case got delayed again."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't offer empty reassurances. Instead, he said, "You've got options."
I blinked. "What?"
"I've been thinking." He shifted, like the words didn't come easy. "There's a guy I know in Bozeman. He runs a rodeo school and books riders for exhibitions. He's always looking for talent. I could introduce you."
I stared at him. "You'd do that?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
Because most people didn't. Most people saw me as temporary, a complication, someone passing through. But Dawson wasn't most people.
"It's not a guarantee," he continued. "But options are good. You never know where the season will take you."
The season. Not us. Not here.
But he wasn't saying temporary, either. He was saying possibility.
I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Okay. That'd be... thank you."
He tipped his hat, but his eyes stayed on mine a beat longer than necessary. Then he turned back toward the barn, and I watched him go, something warm and uncertain unfurling in my chest.
That evening, Ruby called. I answered on the second ring and put her on speaker so I could keep chopping vegetables for dinner.
"Lilah, darling, how are you settling in?"
"Good. Really good."
"And Dawson's been treating you well?"
I smiled, grateful she couldn’t see my face. "He's been... helpful."
Ruby let out a knowing laugh. "I'm sure he has."
I didn't take the bait.
"Wonderful. And the horses are holding up?"
"Better than I expected."
"Good. That man's a miracle worker with horses." Her tone shifted, just slightly. "I’m sure Dawson mentioned the Valentine’s event we’re hosting at the community center this weekend?"
"He did." I’d been surprised when he extended an invitation for me to join him. Showing up together in public felt like a big step, one I wasn’t sure either of us was ready to take yet.
“Did he tell you it’s formal?”
“What?” My pulse spiked, and I almost dropped the knife. “He said it was casual.”
Ruby clucked her tongue. “Typical man. I figured you might not have anything to wear so I asked Ashley if she’d help. The two of you look like you’re about the same size.”
“Thanks, but I’ll just stay at the ranch. He can go by himself.” And it would serve him right for not telling me I needed to dress up.
“Nonsense. Around here, we help our own. I’ll text you Ashley’s address. She’s expecting you at four on Saturday.”
“Ruby—”
“Everyone will be there, hon. You can try to argue with me, but I’ll come out to the ranch to pick you up myself if you don’t show.”
“Okay. I’ll be there.” I’d been in Mustang Mountain long enough to learn that giving in was easier than getting on Ruby’s bad side.
"He probably just forgot to mention it. I imagine he's been a bit tense lately. All this paperwork, deadlines... and then there's that marker Slade found."
I frowned. "What marker?"
"Oh, nothing to worry about, I'm sure. Just some old boundary stone that's got everyone in a tizzy. You know how these ranchers get about property lines."
I didn't, but I made a noncommittal sound that must have satisfied her since she continued without taking a breath.
She chatted for a few more minutes before hanging up, and I stood there, knife in hand, staring at nothing.
Dawson hadn't mentioned a marker. Or property lines. Or anything that might explain the tension I'd been sensing.
But he would eventually. Wouldn't he?
I wanted to think so, but the conversation we’d had earlier resurfaced. He’d offered to connect me with someone looking for riders. Was that his way of telling me it was time for me to move on?
I waited until after dinner when he went out to the barn before I pulled up my contacts.
My thumb hovered over Marcus Webber’s name for a long moment before I pressed it.
Marcus ran exhibitions throughout the Northwest—county fairs, charity rodeos, corporate events. Nothing glamorous, but it was steady work. The kind of gigs that could keep me sharp between major circuits and would pay enough to cover my travel.
The phone rang twice before he picked up.
"Lilah Martinez. I thought you fell off the face of the earth."
"Just took a detour," I said, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Are you still booking trick riders?"
"Always. You looking?"
I hesitated. "Maybe. It depends on the dates."
"I can get you on a circuit that will keep you busy all summer if you want the work."
"Send me the details," I said. "I'll think about it."
"I heard about your horse getting caught up in paperwork. Did you figure out some new stock?”
"I’m working on it."
Marcus laughed. "That's what I like to hear. I'll email you tonight."
“Thanks.” I hung up and stared at my phone, my chest tight. It wasn't a commitment. Just information.
It was the kind of thing smart riders did… keeping their networks active, their calendars flexible, and their futures open. But it felt like something else. Like hedging. Like preparing for an ending I didn't want to think about yet.
I scrolled through my contacts again and found Jenna Park. She'd been running a rodeo school outside Bozeman for the past three years, training younger riders and booking them for showcases. We'd crossed paths a few times on the circuit, and she'd always said to call if I needed anything.
I typed out a message before I could second-guess it.
Me: Hey Jenna. Heard you might have openings for exhibition work this spring. Still looking?
Her reply came fast.
Jenna: Always! Are you available? I’ve got a spring clinic that could use an instructor. The guy who was supposed to run it just backed out. It’s in Bozeman in a couple of weeks. Nothing fancy, but the pay's decent and they cover travel. Would LOVE to have you. Call me.
I set the phone down and pressed my palms against the counter, breathing slow.
This was good. This was smart.
This was what I'd come here to do—rebuild, reposition, keep moving forward.
So why did it feel like I was planning an exit I didn't want to take?